by Christa Wick
"Oh!" Her hands darted up, the palms exposed and the fingers splayed in mock surrender. "So you didn't love her."
"Not like that, Mel."
Declan's expression warped once more and she felt like she was back in the fifth grade with Mrs. Coe telling her she was a fat, stupid child whose own parents must be repulsed by her.
"You're being silly," he persisted when she didn't cave.
Silly or stupid, they were the same thing when Declan said it with that look on his face.
Shaking her head, she edged past him.
"Baby—"
Declan reached for her arm but she shook him off.
"I need to think," she said, her teeth grinding over each word. "I need to be alone."
He said something, his voice soft with a hint of begging to the tone, but she couldn't hear him with all the blood pounding inside her head and the roar of tensed muscles as her face screwed tight to keep from crying while she was with him.
Vision blurred, she made her way to the staircase and escaped up to the princess suite where, for the first time since she'd moved into Declan's house, she spent the night in its bed—utterly alone.
38
Retreating to the princess suite, spending the night there—Melanie wasn't sure how she expected or wanted Declan to react. He didn't knock on her door the next morning. When she finally ventured downstairs, starving at a little after noon, she didn't see him on her way to the kitchen.
The entire house, for all its beauty, suddenly had the air of a mausoleum. Melanie felt little more than a ghost, perhaps one that was recently dead and just then "waking up" to the fact.
She was midway through scrambling eggs when she felt his presence. Looking over her shoulder, she found him standing at the threshold of the kitchen, his shoulder pressed against one wall as he watched her.
Finding her gaze on him, Declan lowered his.
"Do you want me to make some for you?"
Her offer wasn't conciliatory, even though her tone was muted, maybe even penitent. She was merely offering some kind of quid pro quo. Declan had cooked most of the meals since Melanie had moved in, spoiling her with his culinary skills and broad repertoire.
"I ate already."
He sounded a million miles away—or a decade or more in the past.
Returning her attention to the skillet, she shrugged and kept her gaze locked on the task of cooking until she felt him drift out of the room as silently as he had drifted in.
Sitting at the kitchen island with her eggs and a glass of juice, she picked her way through half of the serving. Maybe it was because Declan was such a good cook compared to her own limited skills, but the food seemed devoid of taste. Even if she couldn't see the specks of pepper and grains of sea salt, she remembered spicing the eggs. The juice was equally unappetizing.
Running the rest of the eggs through the garbage disposal, she snorted at herself. All those little heartbreaks in grade school and college hadn't killed her appetite—that had only been accomplished by her father's death and knowing she was losing Declan after never really having him at all.
Returning to the princess suite, she powered her phone off then sent her mom an email, then a second email to Cammie. She heaped sentences into paragraphs into pages, but it all boiled down to two words.
It's over.
Turning off the computer, she rolled over and took a nap until midnight.
On her back, the room pitch black, she woke and stared up at a ceiling she couldn't see while the last month looped through her mind.
Declan had treated her like a queen when he wasn't treating her like a concubine of sorts. Truthfully, she had enjoyed both roles. Even when he was fucking her, he pampered her. He had been generous, passionate, sweet and cuddly. After she had given herself over to the idea that he was really interested in her and not playing some revenge game to punish Roger, the only conflict had come from the outside world and it hadn't been able to drive them apart.
Except they'd never really been "together." She had been "stage managed," as the Hollywood agents liked to call it when they had problem clients.
He had spent his childhood and college years surrounded by drama. His mother had scribbled every day and night away, even writing on wallpaper based on some of the torn samples in the bins Melanie had opened. Willie had been equally troubled judging by the script and corroborated by the news reports.
Both women had also been out of reach, their beauty only allowed to be appreciated from a corner of the room they occupied or through a grimy window. Melanie, on the other hand? She had been open to his every wish, as docile as a lamb.
An object, really.
Grinding her fists against her cheeks and closed eyelids, Melanie laughed at herself even as she cried.
The whole world had known it wasn't right. First they had attacked her for it, now they were attacking Declan. She knew, in that hard spot that used to be her heart, that all the lies and backlash against him would stop once she left, as if desiring her was the ultimate manifestation of mental illness. Hollywood would then forgive Declan as soon as he started banging some "size appropriate" starlet. Melanie could fade to black, assisted by Roger's open offer to move to Massachusetts.
Eventually she might even get a chance to work in the industry again.
Exhaling a long sigh goodbye, she drifted back to sleep until Declan knocked on her bedroom door the next morning at a little after eleven.
Melanie forced herself into a sitting position, two spots on opposite sides of her back feeling like long sewing needles had been jabbed into them. She would have thought she had cried too much the night before to need to pee, but her kidneys were causing the physical pain.
Biting at her lip to subdue the furious complaints of her body, she walked with tightly pressed thighs to the bedroom door. Opening it a few inches, her body hidden behind the heavy wood, she squinted at Declan and told him to wait.
"I have to pee."
She hobbled off toward the en suite bathroom, faintly aware that he had entered the bedroom instead of waiting in the hall. Locking herself in the bathroom, she swiftly pushed down the pants she'd fallen asleep in and released a stream of urine that continued on so long she blushed from how much she had to go.
Finished, she didn't get up right away. Resting her elbows on her knees and her chin on her cupped hands, she mentally inventoried her body. She felt like crap that had been crapped out by crap. Her kidneys no longer hurt, but she could feel every line from where her jeans had embedded in her skin. The cage of her bra with its heavy underwire felt like it had cut through her flesh and was sawing at actual rib bone.
The cherry on top was the pounding sinus headache from the ridiculous amount of sobbing she had put herself through.
Pushing up, she tottered over to the sink, washed her hands then scrubbed at her face. Cupping her hands, she filled them with water. The first handful she swished around, unsuccessfully trying to rinse away the fact that her toothbrush and other hygiene supplies were in the bathroom attached to the master suite. She'd gone forty-eight hours or more without brushing her teeth and only washing her face with water.
"You're a real prize," she whispered, staring at her reflection after drinking down a few more handfuls of water. Huffing at the mirror's lack of a reply, she grabbed the hand towel off the rack and rubbed her face dry before unlocking the door.
Declan had remained in the room. He sat on the edge of the bed, his feet firmly planted on the floor, the flat of his forearms braced against the length of his upper legs. She hadn't paid attention to his clothing when he answered the door, but he was a business jacket short of being dressed up.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze from where he had been staring at a spot of nothing on the ground.
"I need to go by the attorneys' office," he started, his fingers plucking at the thin line that had been pressed along the front of his pant legs. "It will take a couple of hours. I need to listen to some audio and do another affidavit and...
"
One hand swirled a couple of fat loops in the air in place of further explanation.
Standing slightly off to his side, a few feet away while Declan refused to look directly at her, Melanie let her gaze linger over his profile. He was a beautiful man, his face strongly resembling his uncle but enhanced by the fine, haunting features that his mother had contributed to his genetic makeup.
Looking at pictures of him in the past or sneaking a glimpse of him on set, she'd always felt a small thrill of pleasure spread down her spine and along her chest. She wondered how long it would be before she could look at films or photos, even by accident, without feeling like she was looking at an image of a dead loved one.
Standing abruptly, Declan took a step toward her. "Melanie, I—"
"Thank you for the notice," she interrupted, taking two steps back to keep the same distance between them.
Stopping his advance, he stared at her, his gaze flashing between a hard stare and extreme pain. "I want you to come with me."
"Do I need to listen to anything? Sign anything?"
Her hand drifted up to her throat. The voice she spoke with didn't sound like hers. It was slow, monotonous, like a computer or a taped version she was hearing at a slower playback.
"No," he answered, his gaze leaving her to look around the room.
She tracked the spots he stopped at—her laptop, her backpack, the closet door. Except for the empty luggage in the closet, everything else she owned was either in Declan's bedroom or at the new place he’d rented for Cammie.
Was he worried she would pack up and leave?
"Am I going to be shuttled off to some room to wait like last time?"
The attorneys had been adamant about her not being in the meeting while Declan discussed the allegations because, if what Strake claimed was true, she could sue Declan and press charges. They didn't care how much she’d professed her trust in Declan.
"Probably," he answered.
"I think I'll stay."
He shook his head, the motion slow and not rising to the level of negating Melanie's intent.
"They need to see me today, something about some motion," he persisted. "But you've got plenty of time to get showered and dressed."
He tried another attempt at drawing closer. Once again, Melanie maneuvered until she was out of arm's reach.
"I'll make you breakfast while you get ready," he offered.
It hurt too much to look at his face even if she couldn't fully trust that the emotions reflected were real. She stared, instead, at his hands. They were down by his hips, the palms turned toward her. The pose made Melanie think of the time Cammie had successfully dragged her to church with all the martyrs and saints that populated the walls and stained glass captured in the same supplicating gesture.
"I think I'll stay," she repeated.
He took a step toward her. There was nowhere for her to retreat unless she stepped into the bathroom or the closet. Lifting her gaze, she stopped him with a look.
"Mel..." His hands did a little dance, his arms drifting forward before returning to his sides. "I love you, Melanie."
She studied his face. Pride and hurt battled for the right to dominate his expression as she remained silent.
Tears crawled down her cheeks. She couldn't repeat his declaration, didn't know how she could say "I love you" and then walk out of his life. He had to know she was leaving. His face admitted as much. But he wouldn't ask her intent or insist she go with him. Nor would he stay to make sure she didn't leave.
"The sooner you go, the sooner you'll be back," she said to stop the echo of his words inside her head.
Declan reached for her again but Melanie lifted her hand, the fingers splayed in a request for him to stop.
"It will only be a couple of hours. When I get back, we can talk."
She looked to her right where a door opened onto the bathroom.
"I need a shower," she stated dully.
If they talked once he returned to his home, she knew it would only be over the phone. She would be gone. Her phone would be powered off. Even if neither one of them stated it outright, this was goodbye.
"Melanie." With a little shake of his head, Declan closed his eyes while he spoke. His jaws bunched tightly together, his voice soft but strained when he continued. "It's just a couple of hours. You believe Strake lied about the recording and any plan between him and me, don't you?"
"I do," she answered. "That isn't who you are."
"So I can go?"
She nodded.
If only he’d asked a different question or told her he wanted her to stay. But he didn't and that was its own revelation.
"Please, Mel," he started and closed the distance between them before she could raise her hand in protest. His fingers curled around her shoulders and held her in place.
"Can I just—"
He cut himself off, bent his neck and pressed his lips near her ear as she turned to avoid the kiss. His fingers dug a little deeper into her flesh, his lips pressing hard for an instant before he pulled away entirely.
"I love you, Melanie," he repeated as she stared at the floor, tears flowing freely down her face.
39
Standing at one of the tinted second-story windows, Melanie watched the Alfa Romeo pull onto the street with Declan inside. The paparazzi who had been camped outside the mansion for weeks broke into a small feeding frenzy, elbowing one another out of the way as they tried to get their cameras close enough to the car's shaded glass to capture a photo of the vehicle's occupants.
Declan gunned the engine.
Reporters scattered like cockroaches fleeing the light.
Fuck! How was she going to get past them?
She didn't even know the access code for the gate at the drive, just knew it was different from the house's code.
A high, braying laugh left Melanie at a hysterical pitch. She would have to haul her oversized bottom over the side fence, hoping no one saw her.
Waiting for her phone to power on, she checked her backpack for her tablet, wallet, check book and passport before sliding her laptop in. With the phone ready, she requested a taxi at an address two blocks over then headed into Declan's bedroom.
She couldn't go over the fence with her suitcase and didn't want to attract any additional attention beyond what her size commanded in the rich, trendy neighborhood. That meant leaving almost everything behind.
She rolled two lightweight but long-sleeved shirts and a pair of pants then placed them in the backpack. Grabbing the same hoodie she'd worn in Colorado when she'd discovered Declan and Roger's familial connection, she made a small sling and tossed in several pairs of underwear and socks and her two favorite bras, plus an extra pair of shoes and a pair of sandals. Then she changed into fresh clothes and took her backpack and the makeshift sling downstairs to the sewing room where she had left the oversized purse that served as her workbag when she was on set.
Discarding the pieces of her former profession didn't hurt as much as leaving Declan, but her chest tightened all the same when she emptied the bag and put the hoodie with its cargo inside. Last, she went into Declan's study and grabbed a pair of pink tinted Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses and a signed Boston Red Sox baseball cap. Feeling like the worst kind of thief as she pulled her hair back and donned Declan's treasured cap to shield her face, she promised herself she wouldn't lose the hat and would send it back as soon as possible.
Shouldering both bags, she left out the kitchen door, re-arming the system before grabbing the tall rolling trash can at the side of the house and quietly wheeling it to the fence line. She climbed up, denting the lid, then carefully peeked over the fence. With her face feeling like a thousand fire ants were crawling across it, she looked down the side street in both directions, squinting at anything big enough for one of the paparazzi to hide behind.
Seeing no one, she sucked in a deep breath that she didn't release until she slid down the other side of the fence, the skin on her forearms scraped an
d a few splinters digging deep. Another quick glance at the street and sidewalks satisfied her that no one had sent up an alarm even if they had seen her.
Of course, any photographer hoping for an exclusive would be wise to keep his mouth shut and snap away without alerting any of his competitors.
Pushing that worry aside, she started walking as quickly as she could toward the address she had given the cab company, the Ray-Bans on and the cap's brim pulled low.
When she reached the address, she hugged the shadows of a tree for a dozen or more minutes until the cabbie arrived. She was lucky the pick up was in a neighborhood where the homeowners pulled down a minimum of seven figures a year and tipped well. If it had been for the Normandie address, she couldn't have guaranteed the cab would show up at all.
Sliding into the back seat, she hunkered down and gave him a second address that was a few blocks over from Cammie's new place. Out of all that had happened in the last week, all of the secrets that had been revealed, the only bright spot was that Cammie hadn't been outed or otherwise identified. Melanie was not going to be the one who brought the wolves to her friend's door by having the cabbie recognize her and tell the tabloids the address at which he’d dropped her off.
Fifty minutes later, Melanie waited in the lobby of a secured building while the guard called up to Cammie's unit. A few minutes after that, Cammie practically flew down the stairs to wrap Melanie in a hug.
"You didn't tell me you were coming!"
With the guard watching them, Melanie tried to play it off as a casual stop but, this close to her best friend, she couldn't get her jaws to work. Her trap was firmly shut as her lips pressed and rolled along a thin line.
Catching a glimpse of Melanie's face, Cammie's smile faltered but she kept her voice bright. "Let's get you upstairs! I'm so excited you came by!"
As soon as the door was shut, Cammie hugged Melanie again and all the pretense melted away.
"Okay, spill—and I mean words, but my shoulder is ready for you to cry on, too."
Melanie shook her head. For the last few days all she had been was a tear factory. It didn't matter that most of it had been done in private. She was ashamed of how hard she was taking the collapse of a relationship that had existed only in her mind.
